It all began with an email. The matron of my Italian host family, Monica, emailed me with her phone number and told me that it would probably take me three to four hours to get from Ciampino Airport to Orte train station, so she would be expecting me then. It’s official people! I mean, it was official before, but now I have an address, phone number, plane ticket, and ride from the station to my place of work for two months. Where it stems from, I don’t know, but I love manual labor and working with horses. Combining the two is like a dream come true.

Of course, this excitement was slowly tempered with sadness today. I cycled to the post office to pick up a package from my family (thank you!) and enjoyed the 20 degree Celsius weather so much that I decided to cycle to St. Anne’s Park and Gardens.

For those of you who have read past blogs (Ray Ray!), I have visited St. Anne’s before in March, but went without a camera. Back then it was colder, the park more subdued, and the plants still drab. Now the park was so alive and energized it was hard to believe that the two memories are of the same place. The endorphins from the five mile back ride could have helped in my appreciation of St. Anne’s as well, but I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Seeing the Park and Gardens again broke my heart. It’s beauty and history are unparalleled by anything I have witnessed in Texas. And then, naturally, I began to remember all of my travels while here. Connemara, Wexford, Galway, Frankfurt, Geneva, Barcelona, Milan, Venice, London, Cardiff, Montreux, and almost Zurich are all places I have had the privilege to visit, and each had there own unique impressions on me that I will never be able to recreate in America simply because those places and people don’t exist in America. How can I go home and try to get people to understand the fun Jen and I had socializing with small-town Irish while listening to anti-British songs? Or when Sarah, Steven, and I ate ice cream along a Welsh harbor? Or when just Sarah and I paid money to drink (expletive) Twinings in a wealthy town in the Swiss pre-Alps? Or how about when I made it to the top of a hill in the Irish countryside and let the sea breeze and waterfalls listen to my thoughts on things I have never discussed with anyone else? Perhaps instead of lamenting my leaving, I should celebrate what I can bring back to Texas upon my return.

More to the point, St. Anne’s was absolutely gorgeous today. The trees offered shade when needed and a continuous pleasant rustle as the wind blew through their branches. Children, with Irish accents naturally, ran around playing and talking and screaming as mothers and fathers simultaneously gossiped and watched their brood as the grandparents smiled knowingly and rested on benches. First I parked my bike, then I allowed myself a minute to decide if I wanted to take pictures first or study. I settled on catching a few shots. I went through the rose gardens, up the main drive, and reached the bell tower and the fountains around it before I knew I needed to start studying. Returning to the rose gardens, I laid on a bench and let the sun warm me as I read about the human skeletal system. It was probably the most memorable and aesthetically pleasing (except when I study with the always-alluring Matty J and Ray Ray) study hour I have ever had in my life.

Returning to St. Anne’s was the only thing I wanted to do before I left Dublin, but since I have a week left, maybe there are a few pubs and places in the City Centre I should check out. I can’t leave without having another taste bud-tingling Guinness and Black, now can I?

More exciting is the fact that twenty-four hours after my last exam I will be in Italy, Rome to be precise, making my way across the now familiar nation (This will be my fourth journey to Italia) to eventually meet up with my Italian host family. I could not be more excited about this considering I will be working with horses for the first time in six years. I recently spoke to an American student who stayed at the ranch this month and he assured me I will have a great time. If you can’t tell, this post is mostly to proclaim my abject joy at the prospect of being in Italy for so long doing something I love. And to assure people that I am still alive and kicking.

Let the countdown begin!

I had been exploring the area for about ten minutes when the showers started. Immediately I pulled my headphones out of my ears, opened my umbrella, and lost myself in the Irishness of it. On me and Sarah’s last hurrah around Germany, we ended up in the Palmgartens when it started raining. Eventually, the sun came out and gave us the most beautiful view of a garden that I have ever seen. What poetic accolades could I give the gardens but “This is stupid romantic”? As borderline cheesy as the Palmgarten was, Griffith Park  was the opposite. It reminded me of why I love this country – its honesty.

I arrived at the top of a hill and surveyed the scenery. Unattractive brick town homes flanked the southern border of the park, reminding me of post-industrial images of London slums. All the Irish around, none younger than fifty (does that say something about me and my choice of past times?), simply stood under the boughs of the well kept trees as if this was a brief and common occurrence, nothing worthy of a spare thought.

If anyone is doubting Ireland’s moniker of The Emerald Isle, fear not for it is a very green place. The best time to notice it is when the sky is exceptionally blue and the contrast between the tree tops and sky is ridiculous. I can’t really describe the beauty (which isn’t surprising) and photos never really do a place justice, but The Garden of Eden could easily be another nickname for this place. I walked home that day very satisfied.

My satisfaction left me yesterday. I cycled downtown to meet up with Jen and Eda so we could study together, and I locked my bike on the river’s edge. As I walked to the cafe where we would engage in intellectual pursuits, I began to notice all the historical places I was casually passing: a wall built in the thirteenth century, Dublin Castle, an ancient church, the oldest pub in Ireland. Sure, I had seen these things on my previous trips to the City Centre, but now with my departure date looming over my head, I thought about the fact that I would be leaving these structures behind, possibly forever, to continue on with the path I had set for my life. Jen and I agreed that four months is an odd amount of time to spend in Dublin. It’s long enough to begin to feel like a Dubliner, but short enough so that you feel like you haven’t scratched the surface of Ireland and its culture. Now I am rambling, so I better go study.

It all begins when I woke up. But that is the boring part so I will skip ahead to four hours later, around noon.

Having missed my allergist appointment last week due to an unpronounceable Icelandic volcano keeping me from returning to my beloved island, I rescheduled for yesterday at one. I left my flat at noon because it takes forty-five minutes to walk to Phibsboro from DCU, and I needed to stop at the post office along the way. I sauntered into the St. Mohbi Post and mailed two letters to two of my favorite lads back in Texas (you’ll know who you are when you get the letters).  I continued south.

About thirty minutes later, a mere four blocks from my doctor’s office. I realized I had forgotten my serum, and without it, there was no purpose to the appointment. Cursing my stupidity, I rushed across the street and caught the next bus. At this point, I had fifteen minutes to get to the bus stop nearest to my flat, run to my flat, grab the goods, run back to the stop, and ride to Phibsboro. Could I do it? Hell no. At one thirty PM I dashed into the allergist and was sent straight to the doctor’s office. He bought me a muffin, told me I would never leave Europe (this was after he heard about my plans to stay in Italy over the summer), and wished me well. His prices were high, but he was a very pleasant person.

Hugging the receptionist goodbye, I made my way back onto the busy streets. I was in search mode. I needed to find a trimmings/haberdashery shop so I could purchase some crochet hooks. Turning down Blessington, the street I had written on my “List of Things to Do Today” index card, I very much accidentally found the hostel where my good friend Jen was staying. She and I had intended to meet up that day, and my phone calls had gone unanswered. The receptionist at the hostel said I had missed her by about five minutes. So much for that. And I still couldn’t find my crochet hooks.

After asking for directions to the City Centre and spotting the Millennium Spire, I wandered along the Quay. I had missed Dublin proper, and was considering crossing the Liffey and making the half mile journey to an area where I knew I could find some crochet hooks when I spotted another stop on my List. Noting its location in my head, I continued east towards O’Connell Street. Lo and behold, right beside me popped up a Woolen Mills Trimmings. Though it was dubbed “expensive” on all of the blogs I had read during my haberdashery research, I figured one little crochet hook couldn’t hurt my pocket. Purchase completed, I ran back to the noted stop. My feet have served me well on this trip, from February until now.

So despite my forgetfulness, absence of a companion, poor ability to write directions, and general exhaustion from too much studying and too little sleep, all of the things I set out to do were accomplished, and I returned home feeling very satisfied, if not a little tired and sore.

Now back to studying and daydreaming of Italy.

Last night one of my Aussie amigas threw a food and drink at her flat, encouraging all of us guests to bring dishes from our native region. About seventy-five percent of the guests were vegetarian, and about .3 percent of Texas dishes are vegetarian – iced sweet tea. Maybe someone out there can bring another to my attention. So, I branched for Mexican dishes instead, after all, Texas was Mexico once upon a time. Bean, cheese, jalapeno, and pepper quesadillas accompanied me to the fiesta, fresh from the oven. Somehow, someway, even with all of the decadent, mouth-watering plates crowding the table, my quesadillas managed to  get numerous accolades. Of course, I was all over the mountain of nachos Jen made. No normal nachos were these. On top of the chips was piled fresh Irish cheese (what type, I don’t know), corn, tomatoes, black olives, avocados, coriander, and really exquisite salsa. When one of the Swedes, Maya, asked me to give her some, I flatly refused. To hell with manners when you have a plate of the best nachos you have ever had the luck to taste right in front of you. Damn this continent for its total ineptitude when it comes to Mexican food! The salsa and queso I bought to accompany the quesadillas were so foul that I chose to leave them hidden in the shameful back corner of my fridge.

Other dishes I plan on bringing back to the States that were at the party included Lamingtons (which the Swedes renamed Johnstons for some reason), ANZAC biscuits, Fairy Bread, Tiger Toast (which I am craving right now), chips, grapes, all types of nuts, lasagna, some German chocolate treats, cheese squares, and some very delicious Turkish veggie pancakes. But those nachos were really the highlight for me.

Matty J, if you happen to read this, when you pick me up from the airport, immediately take me to the most authentic Mexican food Dallas has to offer. I don’t care if it’s from the back of a roach coach or a five-star restaurant (which it won’t be since everyone knows the best Mexican food is hidden in the worst places). I’m pretty sure I had other things to talk about, but now my mind is filled with thoughts of food and I am useless.

At the beginning of my semester in Ireland, I attempted to use the train and ferry route to London and failed miserably. It was time to see if three months in Europe had honed my travelling capabilities. I would brave the train and ferry.

A trip from London Stansted to Liverpool Station in London proper costs twenty pounds (about forty dollars), at best. Having already paid the fare once just to get screwed out of a flight, I decided it was time to forge the date on my pass and avoid paying for another trip. Needless to say, it worked and my checking account was spared. From there it was a four pound (eight dollar) tube ride to Euston Station where I briefly wandered around searching for the right ticket counter. I eventually found it, but now it was a race against time. If I didn’t board a train within twenty minutes, I wouldn’t be getting to Ireland until five AM the next day. Luckily I made it in time and swiftly boarded the very crowded train. The Irish just wanted to get home.

Five hours later, I left the UK Rail System behind and made for the ferry port. This is where things got stressful. I was one of the first of about five hundred people to get my ticket checked, but I didn’t officially have a reserved seat. This meant that I was on “standby” until everyone else with a reserved seat was placed on the ferry. An hour of watching people check in left me with low spirits and plenty of time to ruminate on what I could spend the next nine hours before another ferry arrived doing. At last, all passengers were aboard except about twenty of us. There were twelve seats left on the ferry.

I have had plenty of adventures and misadventures during my time in Europe, and if there is one rule I always follow, it’s be friendly to everyone behind a desk, and down right obsequious to the desk jockeys with sour dispositions. It is my strong belief that the fact that I didn’t become belligerent or visibly upset when the man behind the ferry counter told me I would have to wait that led to his saving me at that crucial moment when it came time to decide who would board, and who would not.

“I remember this girl at the beginning of the queue.”

Never have more romantic words been spoken to me. At this point I had been travelling on a train, subway, or bus for over ten hours, I hadn’t eaten all day or received more than a few hours of sleep for the past four days. I wanted to get back to Ireland desperately, and even the Jonathan Swift Ferry couldn’t stop me. It was an uneventful trip, and I soon found myself running towards my apartment complex. The score was settled, Irish Ferries: 1, Carissa: 1.

I think the most interesting part of this journey was the fact that I had to be self-reliant the entire time. I can avidly remember those times when my father would pick up my mother, sister, and me at the airport, and every worry and care seemed to drain from my body because I knew I didn’t have to be responsible for myself anymore. I never felt that on this trip, I was completely dependent upon my own abilities the entire time, and I have a hunch that it will be a very long time before I experience anything else. Is that adulthood?

Irregardless of what it is or isn’t, I am in Dublin, having just roused myself from a dreamless and rejuvenating slumber. I think it’s time to post some pictures of Frankfurt.

Friday night was designated “Get Royally Trashed Night” in my head as well as those of my friends, and that made waking up at six AM for my flight to London on Saturday very difficult considering I had only managed to scrap two hours of sleep. But folks, I have learned the value of pub crawling, and it ain’t nothing without great friends mixed with Guinness and Black! Anywho, the journey to London was on a metaphorical chasm, and I was stumbling along the edges, about to fall into the abyss at any second. I nearly missed the bus to the airport, nearly missed getting off at the airport, nearly missed my check-in at the boarding gate, nearly missed clearing through security in London, and sorely missed a comfortable bed and Tylenol by the end of it all. It was rapidly dawning on me that Luck had helped me get to London, but I would have to be much more careful to ensure a smooth weekend.

Soon Sarah arrived, quickly noticing the huddled mass of clothes sleeping on a bench that resembled, and surprise! was, me. Flight to Frankfurt Hahn now boarding, flying, and landing. Bus to Frankfurt am Main now loading, driving, and emptying. The hotel was located fifty metres away from the station, so we quickly dropped off our stuff and headed south of the Rhine. Strolling along, we realized that Frankfurt was kind enough to put every type of art museum a person could want all in a row. Now that we knew what tomorrow would bring, we looked for what dinner Frankfurt could offer. Our worries, both revolving around a perceived abundance of meat and pork in the dishes, proved ill-founded. We stopped at Adolf/Apfelwien Wagner and grabbed a seat outside after we heard some boisterous Germans singing at an adjacent table. Sarah ordered veal, and I vegetable patties. I will never, ever, forget the sheer bliss I felt eating that meal. Every single bit was an utter joy and indescribable pain, since I knew that I was one bite closer to finishing. I wish I was eating it again right now. Seeing how popular it was, I soon ordered some Apfelwien. It tastes like watered-down orange juice to me, but I was still recovering from the meal’s utter perfection. Soon we decided it was time to shisha, and shisha we did. I ordered some tasty virgin cocktails while Sarah puffed away, and before I knew it, it was one AM and I was sleeping in our hotel bed.

The next day gave me the opportunity to take advantage of the free hotel breakfast, and I thoroughly took advantage of it. When it comes to free food, I could care less about social niceties, I’ll eat like a pig until I look like a pig. With the yogurt, muesli, cereal, apple, sweatbreads, and banana safely tucked away in my stomach, we made for Museum Row (my name, not theirs). After the Expressionist Museum, it was the Modern, World, and Applied Art Museums. By five o’clock when we had finished, our feet were in pain and stomachs growling, so we jumped at the next restaurant, a charming little restaurant where I gobbled a salad and “Hand cheese with music”, a local dish of cheese soaked in onions, vinegar, and oil with bread on the side. The real shining moment was when Sarah ordered an Apfel Strudel. It was made fresh and served with pride. Those Germans cannot be bested when it comes to apple strudels. Hot and flakey, the crust easily gave way to the fork while still capturing all the fruity, sweet insides. German food does not disappoint.

Returning to the hotel, I snuck in a quick power nap before we decided to go see a movie. Walking south again, we brusquely made our way to the more neon-heavy neighborhood of Frankfurt, recalling to Sarah’s mind the streets of Brooklyn. Dashing into the theater, we grabbed tickets for “I Love You Philip Morris”. Hoping for subtitles, we were given dubs. Watching that film in German was hilarious, preposterous, and very educational. Lucky for us, many of the filthy English phrases, such as “come in my ass”, translate almost exactly into German. Exiting the theater, we laughed all the way back to the hotel.

Monday was our last, and longest, day in Frankfurt. It began with gluttony at breakfast on my part, and then progressed into a long march north. I visited my first Natural History Museum, congratulations Frankfurt, and my first paid-entrance Botanical Gardens. Both places were more entertaining than I could hope for. Enjoying a taxidermy collection doesn’t make me a freak, right? For a time at the Palmgarten (Botanical Gardens) it decided to rain, so Sarah and I stuck to the greenhouses. Soon that fickle Frankfurt weather decided to release the sun in all of its glory, and I wouldn’t have rather been anywhere else. The plants were bright from the recent rainfall and the cool breeze made the atmosphere indescribably beautiful and refreshing. I wish Mark Twain could lend me some more prose, but alas, the pictures with have to suffice. From the Palmgarten ausgang (exit), we journeyed to the Underground and re-emerged at the Goethe Haus and Museum. Not understanding his significance past the Dr. Faust tale, I was struck by how revered he was during his life time. The countless number of portraits and statues of him almost made me sick to my stomach. The adoration he received must have made him an egotistical peacock.

At this point in our travels we did a lot of walking back and forth through the main financial district for one reason or another; to find food or landmarks or restrooms. Around eight PM, very footsore and tired, we walked to the Main Tower, paid 3.50 euro, and elevated up to the Observation Deck. Having been spoiled by a divine sunset in Dublin two days earlier, I found myself more amused by Frankfurt’s quiet attempt to stun me than impressed. Nonetheless, watching the sun fall behind some hills on the horizon was not something to be scoffed at. Now in the dark, Sarah and I made our way to the shisha (hookah) bar of Saturday night.

Emboldened by our familiarity with the establishment, Sarah and I had no qualms being the only females in there, nor drinking a variety of domestic draughts and fruity cocktails. Two hours later, giggly and ready to head south of the river towards a jazz club, we departed. Because we had to catch a three AM bus to Hahn to reach the airport in time for our flight, we decided to skimp the hotel costs and just club-hop in Frankfurt Monday night/Tuesday morning. We walked the familiar streets, but the jazz club was no where to be found, and needing coffee, I recommended we stop in a open restaurant. Outside of the joint we were approached by a talkative foreigner. Not thinking much of it, I engaged him in polite conversation, that is until he asked me my age. Knowing that it was bad territory, I quickly abandoned the man and we entered the restaurant. Thirty minutes later we exited and found him sitting outside with a friend, still eager to chat. We brushed him off and briskly walked away, and then he suggested we “suck his cock”.

Now I have to rant. Shit like that is unacceptable, not to mention downright rude and crass. Every woman is someone’s sister or mother or daughter, and verbal and sexual harassment are the basest things men can engage in. I walked away from him because it was the socially acceptable thing to do, but my ferocious and enraged dignity wanted to go back, rip his dick off, and choke him with my purse strap until his eyes exploded and he understood the transgression he had made. Next time I won’t let the opportunity slip through my hands.

Thoroughly turned off from the night-scene, Sarah and I returned to the hotel, gathered our things, and made for the bus station. We sat for about an hour until the bus arrived and departed for Hahn. It was checking in at four forty-five in the morning that I learned Irish airspace had been closed. What did that mean? Dear friends, it means I am writing you from London, where I intend to stay with Sarah until tomorrow when I can return to my sassy city and the Luck of the Irish.

Germany had an underlying spirit that seemed to resonate with my own. I could feel my German roots rejoicing at returning to the Fatherland. My Irish ancestors must have immigrated to the isle from Germany. Someday, I know I must return to Germany and Switzerland to explore more of their lands and my own connection to them. But now, I will bid farewell to my lively travels, for I only have Ireland and Italy left to me these next three months. Only Italy and Ireland…

…presently you come to the main object of your trip – Lake Annecy. It is a revelation, it is a miracle. It brings tears to a body’s eyes it is so enchanting. That is to say, it affects you just as all things that you instantly recognize as perfect affect you – perfect music, perfect eloquence, perfect art, perfect joy, perfect grief. It stretches itself out there in the caressing sunlight, and away towards its border of majestic mountains, a crisped and radiant plain of water of the divinest blue that can be imagined. All the blues are there, from the faintest shoal water suggestion of the color, detectable only in the shadow of some overhanging object, all the way through, a little blue and a little bluer still, and again a shade bluer till you strike the deep, rich Mediterranean splendor which breaks the heart in your bosom, it is so beautiful.

And the mountains, as you skim along on the steamboat, how stately their forms, how noble their proportions, how green their velvet slopes, how soft the mottlings of sun and shadow that play about the rocky ramparts that crown them, how opaline the vast upheavals of snow banked against the sky in the remotenesses beyond – Mont Blanc and the others – how shall anybody describe? Why, not even the painter can quite do it, and the most the pen can do is suggest.

Now what measly words could I have spit out that would have even given the barest idea of the majesty of Switzerland? None at all. Naturally, replace Lake Annecy with Lake Geneva, and the passage is completely applicable to my trip. Mont Blanc is actually visible from Lake Geneva.

Aside from the utter beauty, Switzerland gives a travelling soul whatever it could possibly need. I think the happiest time I had in that peaceful nation was on our last night; Sarah suggested we sit on the lake wall around midnight. We sat and talked about everything as the Moon listened and the wind carried our stories far and wide. Lights bounced and danced off the surface of the onyx lake and a few feet behind us a group of teenagers gave us a French rendition of  ”Happy Birthday to You”. Geneva was a sleepy city, never in a rush to go anywhere or do anything. Montreux, home of Castle Chillon, was a mountain town that never let you forget where you were.

Switzerland gave us mishaps, misadventures, Spring flirtations (a precursor to Summer romances), laughs, free public transportation, sunburns (mostly just me), fondue, some lessons in French, and more happy memories than I ever got out of a European vacation.

With classes winding down, I find myself exploring more and more of Dublin by foot. While working on a five mile run last week, I passed a huge cemetery. Coming upon it, I thought it was the outer wall of some fort or castle because of a tower guarding the southeastern corner. My initial assumptions were proven wrong when I began to pass tombstones and mausoleums. There was a gate between me and the cemetery, so I wasn’t desecrating the final resting place of the departed Irish. My usual response to passing a graveyard is holding my breath so the spirits of the dead can’t enter my body, a lesson taught to me by my sister when I was very young, but considering it was a mile-long stretch of tombs and I was running, there was zero possibility of me engaging in that behavior. If I start acting abnormally it’s because some deceased soul has taken control of me.

Less sinister discoveries during my walks have been bike shops and bakeries. A bike shop about a mile and a half from my apartment was an especially good find considering the pathetic state of my bike. No longer are my handle bars angled thirty degrees from where they should be or my front tire out of alignment and constantly rubbing against the front brake. The bakery, Boston’s Bakery to be exact, is going to help me in a little experiment tonight. I am going to try to make Irish coffee. It is slightly more complicated than just mixing whiskey and coffee, so in case I mess up and ruin my attempts, I will feed my guests eclairs from the bakery to assuage their roiling tongues.

My feelings towards Ireland, at first bright as the sun, have dimmed somewhat in the beautiful weather. It’s the smell that has really made me homesick. The smell of Dallas, though I can’t describe it, is very familiar and comforting to me. The scent of Dublin changes every twenty metres and reminds me that I am not home. Knowing me, however, I will get over this and fall back in love with this city by the end of the week. Which is perfect since I’ll be here until May 28th. That’s right fair city, I have set my departure date. I’m really eager to get to Italy and try something new, and the 28th is the date of my final exam. I wouldn’t have minded it being a little sooner, but I guess Ireland has plans for me yet. Not this weekend, though, because with a little luck, that ash cloud will disperse and Aer Lingus will carry me to Geneva, Swizerland on Friday. Look forward to some pictures!